


Cozytober 2020, Whouffaldi Edition

by Nehszriah



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Clara Has Two Boyfriends, Coffee, Cozytober, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fluff, I feel like Time Lords and body temps is like Time Lords and alcohol: depends on the writer, I love me some Northern Hemisphere October, Prompt Fic, but i couldn't help myself, cozytober2020, only the seventh chapter has Pinkwald, rated T to give me some wiggle room but the first chapter is at least G, will add tags as time goes on
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-04
Updated: 2020-10-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:34:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 6,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26804449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nehszriah/pseuds/Nehszriah
Summary: A series of short fics inspired by a prompt set from seasaltsketches on Instagram.Days 1-4: LeavesDays 5-8: CoffeeDays 9-12: BookDays 13-16: BakeryDays 17-20: BroomDays 21-24: ForestDays 25-28: SunsetDays 29-31: Pumpkin
Relationships: Clara Oswin Oswald/Danny Pink, Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald, Twelfth Doctor/Clara Oswin Oswald/Danny Pink
Comments: 18
Kudos: 42





	1. Leaves

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Long story short: I came across a prompt set for October this year that's very chill and laid back, so I decided to try my hand at it. Each prompt is for a couple days and you can find it on Instagram via seasaltsketches.
> 
> 853 words; takes place vaguely mid-s9; nothing much really happens but it's a nice scene and that's probably all these prompts are going to be: nice scenes

There was something about autumn that Clara Oswald always liked. Maybe it was because its onset meant that her birthday was drawing near, maybe it was because the falling leaves reminded her of her mother, maybe it was the fact all her students had finally calmed down after the calamity of that which was summer break; whatever the case was, she enjoyed the season, and she wasn’t about to let anything get in the way of that…

… _especially_ not a stick-insect-of-a-Time-Lord.

“Clara,” the Doctor whined, shuffling into the sitting room. He was wearing her duvet like a cape, draped over his shoulders in an effort to stay warm. She did know, however, he was already wearing no fewer than four layers underneath, making his show more than a touch overdramatic, particularly so since she only had a light blanket covering her legs as she read. “Why is it so **_cold_**?”

“I left the window open overnight—we’re high up enough in the block to where that doesn’t matter.”

“I know that, but _why_?” He made his way to the couch and plopped down, sitting on her feet as he did so. “I thought you didn’t like the cold.”

“I don’t like being cold when I wake up, but that’s what blankets and living space-heaters are for,” she replied. She wiggled her feet underneath him, making it clear whom she was talking about. “Come on now: stiff upper lip and all that.”

“It’s still too cold.” The Doctor slumped over and tried to wedge himself between Clara and the back of the couch for warmth, failing miserably when he realized that there was no hope for his own legs as they hung off the side pathetically. “I still don’t know why you like it so cold indoors. This is outdoor weather.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Why don’t you go and pop off in your snog-box?”

“Not until you’re ready to come along.”

“All I’m hearing is you admitting it’s a snog box.” After marking her page with a leaf, she stood and allowed him to scrunch onto the couch, afterwards sitting so that his torso was between her and the couch and her legs were resting atop of his. She opened the book back up and continued on. “What about the fact that Time Lord bodies have different temperature regulation methods than humans?”

“…which is why I’m so cold.”

“…which was what you said to justify wearing three t-shirts, a jumper, and a hoodie in July…”

“…but I…”

“…and a three-piece suit, also in the blazing heat of summer.”

“That was a different face—no fair bringing different faces into this!”

“It’s perfectly fair.” She exhaled heavily as the Doctor rested his head on her shoulder, allowing for her to lean into his hair, enjoying how cozy and fluffy it was. It had been freshly washed that morning too—the smell of her own shampoo filled her nose and she smiled. “You tend to wear a lot of clothes, even back during other faces.”

“Your echoes met them, not _you_ specifically.”

“That doesn’t mean the TARDIS can’t show me that hideously tacky Yeti-fur coat you used to wear.”

The Doctor cringed.

“That was not _Yeti fur_ , but sustainably-sourced beaver pelts.”

“Is there such a thing?”

“There is when the whole animal is used, and it comes as a gift from a prominent Odawa merchant.”

“You can’t just say a word I don’t know and assume I know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t tell me your brain has gone to pudding when I wasn’t looking, Clara,” he groused. She chuckled at that.

“No—it’s just that I also know that the Doctor lies.”

“When did I lie to you?”

“Do you want me to give you the list alphabetically, chronologically, or by how serious an offense it was?”

He went quiet for a moment, “…no.”

“Alright then.”

After a couple pages’ worth of laying still on the couch, the Doctor began to grow fidgety. Clara tried to ignore his wiggling about like some sort of bizarre caterpillar, though eventually gave up when he nearly knocked her from her spot. Without asking, she maneuvered her arm around and reached underneath the duvet, scratching the middle of the Doctor’s back. He stopped wriggling as his itch was satiated. Clara continued to read one-handed, with her scratching-hand eventually finding its way up his back and necks and eventually into his hair.

“Better?” she asked.

“Maybe,” he admitted. He stayed silent for as long as he could stand, then couldn’t help himself. “When are we going to take the TARDIS out for a spin?”

“You just said when I was ready.”

“When’s that?”

It was like dealing with an antsy child sometimes, really.

“You’ll be the first to know.” She pressed a kiss into his hair and continued reading, relishing in the cool air, warm blankets (and Doctor), and the enjoyable book she had in her hand. The thought for cocoa crossed her mind for later, to help warm the Doctor and herself up before going off on their next big adventure.

Until then, she was fine with where they were.


	2. Coffee

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 747 words; takes place early in s9; I don’t like coffee, so your mileage may vary on the brands and chains and styles mentioned and that’s okay; I also wouldn’t put it past Twelve to go and invent coffee for Clara, by being the catalyst and causing another bootstrap paradox ala Beethoven’s Fifth and… yeah… if the legends of Kaldi and/or varying Sufi origins are apocryphal and incorrect, then in the Doctor Who universe, it’s because no one would believe it was just some alien nerd wanting to impress his Briton girlfriend

She was giving him a chance to redeem himself in his coffee-fetching status. It was only fair, after all, as he had technically still been in the last throes of regeneration sickness when he went the first time and accidentally ditched her in Glasgow. Accidentally—that was the key word there. There weren’t many people he’d purposefully leave “dead in a ditch”, as Clara had so delicately put it, but she was one of the furthest from that list possible. It was why the Doctor wanted to prove that to her that he genuinely _was_ competent and that the Glasgow Incident, as they were referring to it now, was a complete fluke.

Costa—pretty standard. She took one sip and placed it back on the side table next to her favorite chair in the console room’s study area. Huh… needed to get a bit more creative. That meant Starbucks was likely out of the picture as well…

He next swiped some Algie’s from a café in Greenock. Didn’t fare much better, though she did hold onto the cup for longer before putting it down for the first time.

He gave it some thought… Earth coffee… he wanted to find some Earth coffee before working his way up again…

Pret? Not even a blink. Doutor? Nope. Zarraffa’s? Nada. Aida? 85C? Caribou? Bewley’s? Pascucci? Luckin? Biggby? Douwe?

None of it—not even tiny independent cafes—got more than a second glance.

After gathering a summit of the most intelligent minds in all of Coal Hill for a brain storming session, the consensus from two Year Tens, a Year Eight, _and_ a Seven led him to a coffee house with no name or sign in Bethnal Green to get some fitti-hui coffee. One taste of the whipped concoction and she raised an eyebrow, stared at him, and continued on, furrowing her brow as she continued sipping experimentally at it.

“Did she at least finish it?” the Year Eight wondered later on in the week.

“Yes, she’s been finishing all of them, but that’s not the point,” the Doctor scowled. He sat cross-legged on a bench in the courtyard, wracking his brain as his committee helped him puzzle everything together.

“If she finished it, then maybe it is the point…?” a Year Ten shrugged. “You must have really cocked it up that first time if that taste of paradise didn’t work.”

“First off, language,” he warned, the action nearly automatic, “and secondly, I’m still trying to pinpoint what her specific tastes are, particularly the ones she needs to be in a mood for… those are the trickiest.”

“Baba visited his brother in Canada last year and said the coffee there was really good,” the Year Seven offered. “Have you tried Canadian coffee? He said the cold ones are the best.”

“Cold coffee?” the Doctor scoffed. “I don’t think Miss Oswald would be that keen…”

Four deadpan stares made it so that an hour later, he was exiting the TARDIS during Clara’s prep with two Tim Horton’s Iced Capps in a carrier, almost sheepishly extending the offering towards her.

“Trying to get creative while staying terrestrial, are we?” she asked, taking one look at the coffees.

“No, I’m not,” he defended.

“The maple leaves all over the cups are a dead give-away.”

Oh… he was found out. She took one of the drinks and tasted it, giving herself a moment to judge the Doctor’s latest attempt. “You know, not everyone can have globally-prepared coffees every day unless they were someone like a pilot or air steward. Some of my students are beginning to think I’m pranking them.”

“They know I have ways.”

“Yeah, but my coworkers don’t, and they’re equally wondering if this is all an elaborate joke.” She continued drinking the coffee, nodding as she went along. “I do recommend that next time, you stay in Shoreditch.”

The Doctor’s brow arched. “Why…?”

“One of these opened just down the street from here a few months ago.” He bristled; there must have been an error when processing “regional” compared to “global” coffees, though he wasn’t going to admit that out loud. “Yeah—you’d know this if you didn’t commute by TARDIS and walked like a normal person.”

The Doctor opened his mouth, made to speak, then closed his mouth again, instead taking his drink with him back to the TARDIS’s hidey-cupboard, where he sulked until the end of classes for the day. It seemed as though his penance was almost _too successful_.


	3. Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 556 words; if the first prompt of this set was the Doctor being a weenie, then this one is him just being a shit; I have different things for future prompts I swear

The _tck-tck-tka_ of chalk on slate softly carried on in the corner of the TARDIS’s study, out of Clara’s vision. She was curled up on the sofa with a book, a calming candle burning on the sidetable and a blanket over her lower body, making her so absolutely content that she was able to lose herself in the book entirely. A just-right, perfectly-spiced cuppa was even ready within reach; she could have stayed like that for hours.

“That’s it!” the Doctor gasped, out of sight. Clara turned the page idly.

“What’s it?”

“I figured out why the TARDIS has been lurching while in idle,” he announced. “It looked like it was the stablizers at first, then the parking break, but now… it’s absolutely clear.”

“Was it the gyroidal dimensioner couplings?”

“It was the gyr—wait, how did you know?”

“I found the manual and waited to see how long it would take for you to reach the conclusion on your own,” she explained. She continued with her book and sipped her tea, too comfortable to do anything else. It didn’t take anyone psychic to know that the Doctor was still over by his three chalkboards, his expression soured into an indignant pout.

“Now why would you go and do a thing like that?”

“I take it you’ve continued refusing to admit you need to read the manual?”

“I’ve been piloting and maintaining the ship for over two millennia, Clara; I think I know what’s in and not in the manual and if it’s useful or not.”

“Mmmhmm.”

He frowned, arms fully and audibly dropping to his sides. “The least you can do is _pretend_ you’re impressed.”

“You are a clever boy, but are you clever enough to have actually read the manual?”

“How is that being clever?”

“It defies expectations.”

He sulked for a moment before leaving. Clara heard the door whoosh open and closed and finally, once again, she had her peace and quiet. She continued reading (and considering whether or not to recommend the book to a coworker, seeing how spicy things were becoming) and pretended to not notice again when the Doctor slunk back in, an overly-large book in his arms. It reminded her of a phone book, except somehow more unwieldly, and it made her smirk.

“Had to dig it out, did you?”

“Mrrph,” was the only sound that came out of him. He sat down on the sofa next to her, immediately shifting so that his legs were dangling over the unoccupied armrest and his head using her lap as a pillow. As he continued to adjust himself, she continued on with her book, nearly as though she was pretending he was not there. He opened the operations manual to the index and began slowly dragging his finger down the page as he went over the content headers, lowly humming and making soft noises as he did so. After taking a sip of tea, Clara tapped the top of his head with the bottom of her mug.

“You’re distracting me.”

“I’m reading the TARDIS’s instruction manual.”

“Do you have to do it like that?”

“Yes.” He tilted his head up and looked at her, a cheeky smirk on his face. “It’s the only proper way to read.”

She rolled her eyes and attempted to continue reading; he was such a tease.


	4. Bakery

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 886 words; takes place mid-s9; bread is one of the things I imagine Twelve smelling like, so this does work; also contains very specific slang for comedic effect

“Listen: I’ve got a lot to do right now and I’d rather try to use the TARDIS to do it as a last resort. Take this and go get some bread—we’re out.”

With that, Clara had sent the Doctor out of the flat with a ten pound note and instructions to not return empty-handed. He had insisted that he go and travel via his space-time ship, though she refused, insisting that he get up to some “Earthen nonsense for once”, whatever that was supposed to mean. Standing just outside the door to the flat block, the Time Lord shoved his hands in his pockets and glanced up and down the pavement.

Get some bread.

Now he knew she hadn’t been talking about what the Coal Hill denizens referred to as “getting some bread”, as that was related to the tenner crumpled in his left pocket. Actually, now that he thought about it, he did recall some whisperings about how he didn’t need to “get bread”, as he had Clara, and something about her being a “lucky lady” and a “powerful waifu”. He shook his head; he was going to need to do some adjustments to the translation microbes if he had any chance to understand Clara’s students, as he prided himself on understanding… maybe not empathizing or caring, but he at least understood more than he let on. That stored in a train of thought for later, he began walking down the pavement, glancing around.

Bread… bread… bread… where was that bakery that Clara had been taking him to…?

Ah! There it was! It was a little shop nestled between a record shop and a barber: the bakery that had been there almost as long as any Human had been alive. He walked in and saw the clerk was with another customer, so he lingered by the door as he waited for her to finish. After the other customer left, he took the money from his pocket and placed it on the counter.

“I was given this and told to get bread,” he explained.

The clerk—spattered in flour and flecks of dough smeared on her apron—raised an eyebrow at him. “What kind?”

“I don’t know. She just said to get bread.” He watched the clerk as she looked at his hand holding down the tenner and something flickered across her face. What _was_ that? Her face didn’t behave like Clara’s did—on the virtue of her being a not-Clara—causing him to be on guard.

“Does your wife usually buy light bread or dark bread?”

“Uhh… light…? I think? It’s just a plain loaf of bread.”

“Plain loaf…? I don’t have plain loaf-style bread, if that’s what you’re asking…”

“…then what kind of bakery are you?”

“Not a Scots or Irish one.”

He paused at that, allowing himself time to digest what the translation microbes told him. “We’re thinking of different things, aren’t we?”

“Possibly.”

“All I’m looking for is just bread,” the Doctor stated. He didn’t know how he could be clearer—damn those microbes. They were _really_ going to need some tweaking. “Don’t you have ‘just bread’?”

“Didn’t want to jump to conclusions and get you in trouble, is all,” the clerk shrugged. She pulled a loaf off the rack behind her and placed it in a paper bag. The Doctor paid and she gave him the bread and his change. “Let me know how it goes, mate.”

Not really wanting to answer what he felt was a weird sentence, the Doctor left the bakery with the bread under his arm and began the walk back to the flat block. After returning, he made his way back up to Clara’s flat and, just as he was about to place his key in the lock, had the door whisked away from him as Clara herself opened it. She jumped at seeing him, taken aback by his presence.

“Jesus! Doctor! You scared me,” she cursed. She saw the bag in his arm and raised her eyebrow. “That was quick. Did you go to the one by the Tube station or the record shop?”

“Record shop.”

“Huh—I was just getting ready to go to the one by the Tube station to find you—you left your mobile and I forgot to tell you what kind.”

“This is what the woman gave me, so this is what I got,” he claimed. The Doctor gave Clara the bag as they stepped back into the flat. She inspected it, nodding. “Is it right?”

“Yeah—perfect.”

“Good, because I don’t want to go back there. Something about that woman didn’t seem right.”

“How so?”

“I tried telling her I wanted a plain loaf of bread, and she thought I meant something other than what we ended up with—I don’t know how someone with as thick a pudding in her brain ended up running a bakery.”

“Maybe it’s not as thick as you think it is,” Clara deadpanned. She passed him back the bag. “Alright, your turn: make sandwiches.”

“…but I fetched the bread!”

“…but I made sandwiches yesterday, and I still have a lot of marking to do,” she reasoned. She kissed him on the cheek and gave him a flirtatious wink. “Only five more essays—then planets.”

“You promise?”

“I wouldn’t promise you anything less.”


	5. Broom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 940 words; some of you knew this was coming, but for everyone else, SURPRISE, here’s a flower shop AU; this is honestly one of the better candidates I’ve had to possibly expand upon later of this prompt set to-date and idk how I should feel about that

The front doorbell chimed lightly as a customer walked into the tiny store. Unbothered by the intrusion, the designer behind the counter deftly sliced off the end of a stem of button pomps and placed it in the vase before her.

“Ravenwood Floral; how may I help you?” she asked idly, not taking her eyes off the arrangement in front of her. She saw someone in the very edge of her vision approach the counter. “Yes…?”

“I hear you’re the best florist this side of the River Lea.”

“You heard correctly,” she replied. Turning her head, she saw her customer properly: a tall, thin man with greying brown hair and grey-blue eyes sharp enough to match his Scottish accent. With a purple shirt and a dark navy-blue jacket and trousers, he looked something akin to a cross between a magician and a music teacher.

“I’m in need of your floral expertise,” he said plainly.

“Are we _getting_ out of trouble or _staying_ out of trouble? Those are two different price points.”

He furrowed his brow at her until she pointed at his hand—ah, his ring. “Oh, no; there’s a long story behind it, but no… that’s just the finger it fits best on. I’m not in a relationship of any sort.”

“…then why do you need the expertise of the best florist this side of the Lea?”

“…I have this student, see, and…”

She cringed at that, immediately taking an offensive stance as she went around the counter, ready to physically shove him out of the store. “Whoa, whoa, whoa… nope, I don’t do that.”

“What?!” He watched as she picked up her clippers and pointed them at him. “She’s like my daughter! Knock it off—I just want to order her something as a congratulations for getting into grad school. I’m popping in now while she’s off meeting her girlfriend’s parents and is therefore thoroughly distracted. Honest.”

“Why are you gifting a student—who sounds like she has a girlfriend she’s serious about—flowers?”

“… _as a congratulations_ , like I said.”

“No… why _flowers_?” She placed the clippers down and looked him dead in the eyes. “Isn’t there something a bit more… appropriate? You know, something that can’t be misconstrued?”

“It’s something a father would do, right?” he asked. “I told you that she’s like my daughter.”

“Her own father doesn’t mind?”

“Neither of her parents are exactly able to object, and I know what that’s like.” He motioned towards the half-done arrangement sitting on the counter, shrugging. “What are you putting together there?”

“Some different poms, carnations, alstro, broom, thinking about sticking a couple roses in it…”

“Would it be good for what I need?” he asked. She shook her head.

“These are all good flowers and accents, but if this is celebrating a might-as-well-be-daughter’s acceptance into grad school, something a little higher-end is likely in order. Keep the roses and some pomps, I think, but also add sunflowers or gerbs, maybe a hydrangea and some lisianthus; I’d have to see as I go along to see if I’d change my mind…”

“I’m not sure what you’re—” he began, only to be cut off by her holding up her hand to quiet him.

“I’m caring so that you don’t have to.”

“…so you’re my _carer_ …?”

“I’m a florist—it’s my duty to care. Everything that goes out that door is made to express some sort of thing that can’t be put into words. I’d be terrible at my job if I didn’t take that into consideration.”

He scratched the back of his head and let his hand rest along his neck, slowly slipping down until it was limp at his side. This was the bossiest florist he’d ever run into, though she certainly was confident about her job and what it entailed.

“Alright; what can I get for fifty to sixty pounds?”

“Something more than decent—that gives me a bit of wiggle room to work with. She’ll be so impressed that she’ll wish you became her pseudo-dad earlier.”

“Now I wouldn’t go _that far_ …”

“When did you need this by?”

“Tuesday…?”

“Then come back on Tuesday; your arrangement will be ready and I’ll stick to within your preferred price point. Let me take down your name so I can remind myself…”

“Basil Smyth—with a Y. Everyone calls me the Doctor, even Bill.”

“Your student?”

“Yeah. Billie Potts—two Ls, two Ts.” He watched as the florist jotted down his info on a pad of paper sitting next to what looked like an ancient computer and an even older cash register. “Your name?”

“Clara Oswald; I own and run this shop.”

“All by yourself?” he wondered. She frowned at that, folding her arms across her chest.

“Is that you volunteering to sweep up?” she asked.

“No,” he scoffed.

“Then I’ll see you Tuesday.”

“That’s it? That’s all you need?”

“You’d be surprised.” She spun him around and began to push him towards the door. “See you then.”

Before he knew it, Basil was standing on the pavement, staring up at the sign for the flower shop. A leaf behind a raven was emblazoned on the door, window, and the sign hanging over him; it was definitely a place owned by a spitfire, that was for certain. With a confident, bossy owner and the least amount of input he’d had in a _long time_ , the entire encounter seemed surreal. He liked it, actually, and began walking down the street towards where the Tube station was.

All he knew was that something told him he was going to have some damn good flowers waiting for him on Tuesday.


	6. Forest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 936 words; mid-s9, like most of this prompt series; these two idiots tried so hard to make me write something stronger than T but I resisted valiantly

“I want to have a picnic.”

It was all Clara had to say in order to get the Doctor to bring her to a quiet planet that was masked in brilliant twilight. With a packed lunch in-hand, they began to make their way through the teal trees and auburn bushes as they found their way from where the TARDIS had allowed itself to be parked to their perfect picnic spot. Every footfall was another soft glow, the moss beneath their feet reacting to the pressure they put upon it.

The pair eventually found a spot underneath a large tree and sat down, facing the lake a few meters away. First Clara leaned with her back to the tree, then the Doctor with his head against Clara’s chest, and her arms around his shoulders.

“This is nice,” she hummed. She pressed a kiss into his hair, taking in the way he smelled—bread and coffee and time itself. “I like the thrills and the running, but this is a nice change of pace.”

“I didn’t think this was something you ever wanted to do off-Earth,” he admitted. She pinched his shoulder gently.

“Not _all the time_ ; can’t enjoy a bit of space-downtime without some space-hightime to balance it out.”

He opened this mouth to counter-point, thought the better of it, and closed his mouth again; she had him this round.

“How did you know about this planet?” she wondered.

“I came here once long ago, with a friend of mine who also wanted a quiet evening,” he said. “She enjoyed it here—I think the two of you would have gotten on.”

“Are you saying you want to introduce me to a past girlfriend?” she smirked. He tilted his head up to look at her, a scowl on his face.

“…an old _mate_ , thank you,” he pouted. “Maybe if I had been in a different frame of mind, possibly, but we were just friends. Mates.”

“Mmmhmm… sure.”

“You don’t believe me.”

“More like I take a lot of what you say with a spoon of salt,” she teased. She poked him in the side as punishment, making him wriggle in protest. He rolled over and propped himself up on his hands and knees, the sight of which immediately made her pull him in by the hem of his sweatshirt and kissed his lips. Leaning in cautiously, he reciprocated as long as she wanted, lingering after they parted.

“I think maybe I should get the lunch ready,” he blushed.

“That sounds extremely sensible.”

He nodded silently, pressing a quick kiss to her cheek before scrambling away towards where they placed the basket. After unfurling the blanket and laying it out over the mossy ground, he got out the crackers, olives, cold cuts, fruit, fancy cheese, the thermos of tea, and began setting up their lunch under Clara’s watchful eye. The Doctor could feel her gaze, and although it made him more than a bit self-conscious, it was something he was absolutely _craving_ and only wanted _more_. When he was sufficiently done with setting everything up, she moved from her spot and slipped off her shoes at the edge of the blanket, stepping on in her stocking feet.

“It looks delicious,” she said.

“The same can be said of other things,” he replied. He too took off his boots and left them on the edge of the blanket, joining her as she sat crosslegged by their food. There was an electricity in the air that they both loved, as it was the start of a low, slow build that would likely come to fruition later. For now, however, they were fine with the spread before them.

“I have to remind you to drop me off wherever this friend of yours is from so I can thank her for helping you find such a serene place.”

“Ah… that’d be a bit difficult,” he frowned. “She’s not exactly in a position to have intergalactic visitors right about now. Might explode… literally.”

Clara held up her hand to silence him. “I don’t want to know.” She popped an olive in her mouth and threw him a flirty wink. “What else do you know about this planet?”

“It will be twilight for at least five hours,” he began, “and the water tastes like lemon merengue.”

“Does it now?” She raised an eyebrow at that. “I wonder what would happen if you made tea in it.”

“Only a zinger works,” he offered a bit too quickly.

“Is that experience talking?”

“Possibly.”

They continued eating, chatting idly about how Clara’s day had gone at work and what it was like for the Doctor to sit around waiting for it to be his turn to butt into her life again. Their food was nearly done when a low rumble of thunder rolled over them— _that_ was the electricity. After tasting the air, the Doctor began to hurriedly pack up the remnants of their meal, with Clara helping, making it just in time for rain to begin pouring down by the time the basket closed. They threw their shoes in the blanket and began to run in their socks, trying not to lose anything from their cargo. By the time they made it back to the TARDIS, they were soaked through their clothes, laughing the entire way. The ship thrummed scoldingly; don’t catch a cold.

“Ah, we’re fine,” the Doctor guffawed. He was about to walk further into the console room when he was pulled down by his shoulder, Clara bringing him into another kiss.

The rain tasted a lot like lemon merengue as well, it seemed.


	7. Sunset

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 900 words; confession time: I was reminded of Danny Hate (not how some of you reading might think) and my immediate and visceral reaction is almost always to write fic in it with him, thusly making this take place in a Good Ending of s8 where he lives and whatnot; kinda sappy but idc

The warm, aromatic smell of chicken and spices was filling the flat, letting it be known that dinner was impending, though still a while yet. Danny walked into the kitchen and wrapped his arms around Clara from behind, resting his chin atop her head as she stirred the sauce on the stovetop.

“I still say I should be cooking if it’s my flat,” he groused.

“…and I still say I cook a better biryani,” she smirked. Clara moved within his grasp, making his arms slack as she shifted in order to reach the pot of yogurt on the counter before spooning it into the sauce. “How about next time we have kedgeree at my place, it’s your turn.”

“You don’t like kedgeree.”

“That’s not the point.”

He took the empty yogurt pot from her and went to rinse it out in the sink. “I know; the point is that I feel bad.”

“Then let’s move in together and get you used to the concept of _our kitchen_ instead of yours or mine. You know the offer’s still on the table.”

“Yeah, I know; I still need to get with my landlord about if I can break the lease early.” He felt her touch his arm and he looked, seeing that she had stepped away from the stove for a moment. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss to her lips, which he pulled away from soon as he heard a noise from inside the sitting room.

_VWORP – VWORP – VWORP_

“I better go see what he wants before it’s dinner for three again,” Clara said.

“I’ll watch over the sauce,” Danny sighed. “At least it’s now and not while we’re trying to sleep.”

“It could be much worse than that and you know it,” she replied, patting his rear before leaving the kitchen. She saw the TARDIS finalizing her materialization in the middle of the rug and crossed her arms, waiting patiently. The Doctor popped his head out soon as things were stable, frowning at the environment.

“This isn’t your flat,” he said.

“ _It’s mine!_ ” Danny shouted from the kitchen. “ _It’s **Sunday**!_”

“He’s right, you know,” Clara mentioned. “What is so urgent you couldn’t wait until Wednesday?”

The Time Lord simply held out his hand. “Trust me.”

She did, though gave him a skeptical look as she took his hand and allowed him to lead her onto the ship. A few levers and switches and the TARDIS landed again, with him offering his arm this time instead. She took it and raised an eyebrow.

“Is my biryani going to get cold or burnt?”

“Possibly; I’m not sure,” he admitted. “I just found this, and knew I had to show you in person now before I forgot.”

The Doctor opened the door and led Clara out. As they walked across the purple grass of a clifftop, they were awash in golden light as three suns set on the horizon. The sky was greens and blues, with orange clouds catching the light playfully.

“…it’s beautiful…” she marveled. She leaned against his arm, smiling as she gazed out on the valley below them: rolling lavender hills and a pink lake with a stream.

“Is this an okay interruption to Sunday dinner?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, “I think so.” Clara sat down on the ground and let her eyes wander. The Doctor joined her, though his gaze was not on the landscape, but on her face as she took everything in. “What’s that down there?”

“Hmm…?” He looked in the direction she was pointing—a small spire of smoke lifting into the air from the far end of the lake. “Oh, those are the locals.”

“Let’s go visit them.”

“I’d rather not; they’re a bit on the xenophobic side, Laxxians, and I’d rather not make you a prisoner of war while PE has charge of the biryani,” he explained. She let out a low laugh and resumed leaning against him, allowing him to wrap an arm around her. “Susan and I ran into them once on accident, hence why we’re keeping our distance.”

“Can you blame them? You’ve always been such a charmer.”

The Doctor grunted in irritation—she didn’t need to bring himself into the conversation. Well… he _technically_ brought himself into the conversation, though she was the one who continued with it, which was admittedly less than flattering. She gave his thigh a pat, though it was less comforting than was intended.

“Warts and all,” she reminded him.

“I don’t have _warts_ , Clara. Those viruses don’t affect me.”

“You know what I mean.” She turned to him and gently pulled down his face so as to kiss him tenderly. “Don’t worry: you have just the right amount of charm.”

“Says who?”

“Says the most important person: _the Impossible Girl_.”

Unable to argue, he watched her go back to observing the valley, taking careful note of her face. He was still learning, but what he saw seemed promising: the slight upturn of the corner of her lips, the relaxing of her brow, the way the lids of her eyes drooped slightly in her content state. It was a good face to shuffle away in his memory, so that not only would he know next time how she was reacting, but was something to remember fondly in the times between Wednesdays (and the occasional interruption).

At least when they got back, the biryani was far from burnt.


	8. Pumpkin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 878 words; again, just a scene, though a scene that could lead to some more fun; takes place in a vague s9 setting but you probably already knew that

He had been planning on picking her up straight from work and going for a spin around the galaxy from there. It wasn’t too much to ask, was it? If the universe would simply cooperate and allow him to do what he wanted, things would have been so much easier, so much simpler…

…and vastly less annoying.

“What are these?” the Doctor asked as Clara shoved a tangle of string lights in his arms.

“Lights,” she replied frankly.

“I know _what_ they are, but it would be nice to know for what purpose are they going to serve?”

“…for both lighting and decoration,” she explained, her voice disappointed. She took one of the lights—it was shaped like a pumpkin, but with a face—and held it between her fingers. “We’re setting up the gym for the fancy dress party tonight.”

He paused for a moment, brows furrowed. “I would have remembered a fancy dress party.”

“You agreed to it two weeks ago.”

“When two weeks ago?!”

“Over dinner.”

…oh…

“…that was silence, not acceptance.”

“Your silence and decision to keep stuffing your gob full of mash was enough agreement for me,” she said. “Now come on and let’s get decorating!”

She placed a cardboard box in his arms as well before pushing him off in the direction of the gym. He gave up about halfway down the corridor and entered the gym of his own volition. There were other boxes of supplies waiting for them, the room cleared out of any possible other students and staff.

“Shouldn’t Mister Atif be doing this?” the Doctor wondered as he placed the box and lights on a pre-set-up table. “This is his job, isn’t it?”

“Not when he needs to take care of the millions of other things he needs to do throughout the day,” Clara reasoned. “Now start unknotting those lights.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

He did as he was told, taking the large lump of multiple strings of lights and began to unknot them, pausing momentarily here and there to help with a table or a stack of chairs. By the time he was finished, most of the gym had been set up already, with the lights and banners needing the last bit of attention.

“So we’re just going to have a couple empty tables?” the Doctor wondered. Clara adjusted one of the cheap tablecloths and shook her head.

“This is for the food to go on, and there’s going to be other teachers bringing down activities from their own classrooms later,” she explained. She then glanced around, her face falling. “I forgot the stepladder.”

“Well, how high do these need to go?” he asked.

“Taller than your reach.”

“Then I know how to fix it.”

“…by going back to my classroom and grabbing the stepladder?”

“No… I can show you how we don’t need the stepladder.”

That made her eyebrow raise in disbelief. “Oh? How?”

“Here, I’ll show you.” He placed the end of the string lights in her hands and led her over to the wall. “Where did you want to start?”

“Well, the plug’s over here…! Oh!”

In an instant, the Doctor had bent down whilst Clara was distracted and hefted her onto one of his shoulders, holding her calves securely against his chest. She grabbed hold of his head while she found her balance, more than a bit nervous about her position.

“What’d you do that for?!”

“You’re in a skirt; I can’t have you on both shoulders,” he reasoned. “Now hurry up before my shoulder gives out and I regenerate.”

“That wouldn’t make you regenerate,” she smirked. She began to string up the lights on nails still poking out of the wall from previous fancy dress parties.

“Try me.”

“Uh-huh, sure. Next you’re going to tell me you died from falling twenty feet once.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Then lucky for you, I’m not that heavy.”

“Tell that to my shoulder—you are very solid.” She tapped his head in retaliation, which caused string lights to smack his face. “I could drop you for that.”

“…except you know what’s good for you.”

“Uh… Miss Oswald…?”

The Doctor turned and he and Clara looked over towards the gym doors, seeing Mister Atif standing there with a cautious look on his face. “Do you need me to get the stepladder?”

“Oh, no need, Mister Atif, but thank you anyhow!” Clara replied cheerily. “We’re almost done here.”

“You and Mister Smith do know we are here in a school… for _children_ …”

“The pudding that is their brains is still setting—they’ve seen worse, and not out of us,” the Doctor said. He allowed Clara to put up the last bit of lights and plug them into the wall—bingo—before allowing her to drop to the floor. “See? No harm done.”

“Keep that in mind when you’re chaperoning tonight,” Mister Atif reminded them before leaving the room. The Doctor’s face crinkled as he was now met with the new horror that Clara had volunteered him for… for Rassilion’s sake, not chaperoning. His shoulders slumped slightly as he sulked; no one warned him about anything regarding that.

Clara pulled him down and pecked him on the cheek—well, at least he knew the night wasn’t going to be _too annoying_.


End file.
